The Overcast Sky Effect
by BlazingLegend
Summary: It's been five days since that night on the train, and homo-novus is starting to properly freak out. —Sheldon/Amy.


I wrote this awhile ago, but fear-of-OOCness is partly what stopped me from updating. Plus I forgot. Enjoy.

* * *

'Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know.'

—Ernest Hemmingway

Sheldon scrolled through the internet web page, muttering in angry bursts under his breath as the words rearranged themselves and crashed against each other into something highly unnatural.

_Amy._

His face balled up like the thought was a bitter taste, which to him it should be, to him and his intellect and his valuable time which shouldn't be spent thinking about some woman who didn't even work in the same _field _as him—

—some woman, some woman with long hair and a soft voice and thick, wide-rimmed glasses that guarded brilliant green eyes. Some woman whose odd curves fitted against his tall frame _inexplicably, _like two puzzle pieces you never expected to fit together. Some woman with brownie on her lips, a taste that no matter how much he drank, would always be under his tongue, right there, sneering and mocking him.

He closed his laptop screen with a thud, hot, hissing breath rushing out from behind his teeth. He heard ruckus and humming voices emanating from the living room and got up to investigate, (wondering if Penny had walked in unannounced again, because a homunculus such as Leonard shouldn't be making that much noise.)

"Leonard?" he said, pressing his lips together. "What is the—"

And then his eyes fell upon the _some woman._

With her hair, and her glasses, and those green, green eyes.

He folded his arms, willing the muscles in his cheek not to start ticking. "Good evening, Amy."

She nodded at him, raising a wine glass to him, her lips cocking upward in a smile. "And to you, Sheldon."

Small animal noises could be heard in the corner of the room, and it took him a moment to realise it was Penny—_Penny giggling. _His brow knotted in confusion, and his eyes darted from her to Leonard (bouncing off Amy, because she was like snow reflecting off an overcast sky—too painful to look at,) and back to Penny, who just wouldn't stop snickering at him.

"May I talk to you in the hall, please?" Amy said, and it was then he realised her smile was not warm—it was brittle and hard, and her nostrils were flaring and those eyes were laced with flames which were most certainly directed at him.

He nodded, breathing low. "Of course. Excuse us."

Penny let out another yelp of mirth, and he turned to glare at her. (In response her face blanked and her lips pulled and she gave him a nervous smile as some sort of peace offering.)

He shook his head and walked to the door, Amy by his side, and in such close proximity he could hear her harsh, angry breathing, as she tugged down her sweater in what looked like an effort not to punch him in the face.

"What seems to be the matter?" he said as she closed the door behind them and turned her back to him.

"The matter?" she said in a quiet voice. It loudened. "The matter. Well. Perhaps you and your superior brain can attempt to figure it out."

"No. I'm afraid I am drawing a blank."

"Five days." She said. "One-hundred and twenty hours. Seven thousand two-hundred minutes. Four-hundred and thirty-two thousand seconds. You do _know _the math, don't you, Sheldon?"

His jaw clenched. "Yes. Yes, I do."

He tried to look back at her, maintain some level of dignity, but _those damn eyes _flashed into his again and he just couldn't, he couldn't.

(Eyes were just a part of the human body. He knew full well how they worked, how his worked, and how hers worked. They didn't have power over him, they possessed no special qualities. They didn't have power over him. They didn't, they shouldn't, and they didn't, they didn't, they didn't.)

"Sheldon, why have you been ignoring me?"

He felt something hard clench down in his stomach. He swallowed.

"Sheldon."

She glared into him after he remained silent after two more minutes. "Sheldon, answer me."

The hard clenching feeling suddenly burst out into something raw and explosive. "It's because I have no use nor interest in your company."

She let out a small, harsh gasp and jerked back, her face and neck flooded with colour, three dark freckles clustered on the underside of her neck starting to stand out as the rest of her skin flushed. It took him a moment to realise that he didn't know _why _he was looking at them, and another moment to realise that he couldn't _stop._

"You know what, Sheldon?" she said, after a long moment. "You are mean. You are a mean man. You are a mean, small, petty and arrogant and obnoxious man. That's what separates you from the rest of the human race—" she said, her eyes glazed with fury and her fists curling and flexing by her sides and her face positively alight with all of the emotion she was forcing upon him, "—it's not superiority, or intellect. You are _petty._"

He had nothing to do, nothing to say, nothing except avoid looking her directly in the face.

"But I am insignificant, aren't I?"

He stared into her open face, her coloured cheeks and her fast breath and her wide eyes.

No. It wasn't because she was insignificant. It was because she was _significant. _She was the most significant thing in his life, a treasure suspended above a precipice and ready to drop at any moment. His life shifted when she did. He followed wherever she went, with cupped hands, ready to catch her if she ever were to fall.

Because he didn't know what would happen to him if she ever did.

(But he couldn't tell her any of this. Because then the floodgates would burst, and the filter would disappear, and all the terrifying and insane and illogical and wonderful and white hot unidentifiable _things_ would rush out, all at once, and he wouldn't know what to do, and he'd be drowning. Drowning, drowning and sinking underneath tidal waves of things he didn't even understand.)

"I think you should leave." He said. "You should go."

She shook her head. "Alright. I'll leave. But—"

Her voice broke before tapering off. He saw tears rimming her eyes, and felt something snap deep inside of him, something that had just been waiting to break.

"Amy," he said in a voice that wasn't quiet, but something close to it, resigned or tamed or broken down, but not quiet. "Amy—"

"What?" she demanded, "What could the brilliant mind of Sheldon Cooper possibly have to say to me?"

_His hands found their way to her hips, burning through her layers of clothing._

_Her entire face froze against his, and then slowly, slowly, her lips started to move._

He swallowed.

_Her odd curves fitted against his tall frame _inexplicably.

He looked into her angry face and felt the taste of brownie moving under his tongue. Her chest was heaving with how fast she was breathing, how mad she was at him.

He didn't want her to hurt herself.

_Like two puzzle pieces you never would have expected to fit together._

"What?" she said. "Come on."

"You should..." his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "You should say goodbye to Penny. You wouldn't want to make her mad."

She shook her head, but didn't say anything, and went back inside.

Penny was tucked under Leonard's arm, sitting on the couch, and at the sight of Amy she bounded up, (causing Leonard a certain amount of distress,) and her face brightened. "So...?" she said in a girlish, gossipy drawl.

Amy looked at her. "So, Penny."

Penny's face shut down and her feet stopped bouncing. "Oh."

Amy simply nodded.

Sheldon took the opportunity to steal away to his room, closing the door—_tightly—_and pressing himself against it.

He heard Amy's voice float to him through the door. "Well, bye, Penny. I'll call you tomorrow. Leonard, I'll see you when I see you. Bye."

He heard the door shut, and was hit with the sudden sensation of sunlight being covered by a wall of cloud.

He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, the broken thing inside him breaking even further, until it was just scattered debris underneath surging tidal waves, lapping and rolling against their confines.

_Because she was like snow reflecting off an overcast sky—too painful to look at._

And the floodgates disintegrated, all at once, and he was drowning.

And it was okay.


End file.
